'What think you the dead are?' 'Why, dust and clay,
What should they be?' ''Tis the last hour of day.
Look on the west, how beautiful it is                                
Vaulted with radiant vapours! The deep bliss
Of that unutterable light has made
The edges of that cloud ... fade
Into a hue, like some harmonious thought,
Wasting itself on that which it had wrought,                         
Till it dies ... and ... between
The light hues of the tender, pure, serene,
And infinite tranquillity of heaven.
Ay, beautiful! but when not...'
...
'Perhaps the only comfort which remains                              
Is the unheeded clanking of my chains,
The which I make, and call it melody.'